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"Pain is Inevitable, Suffering is a Choice"Wed, 18 Feb 2015 23:19:56 +0000en-UShourly1http://wordpress.org/?v=4.1.1Demon Cleanerhttp://run100miles.com/survival-race-2015/
http://run100miles.com/survival-race-2015/#commentsWed, 18 Feb 2015 17:15:49 +0000http://run100miles.com/?p=3791A Fuego Y Agua Survival Run Race Report At the end of 2014, my wife left me. And for good reason. The damage I did to her, has now been transferred to me, and I have been a chaotic mess since. It consumes me. It’s something that hurts every single day, and something that deeply […]

A Fuego Y Agua Survival Run Race Report

At the end of 2014, my wife left me.

And for good reason. The damage I did to her, has now been transferred to me, and I have been a chaotic mess since. It consumes me. It’s something that hurts every single day, and something that deeply affected my training, and my goals leading into this challenging event.

Therefore, this report isn’t going to be your usual report. There will be very little obstacle challenge clues, no turn-by-turn explanations, and certainly no holier-than-thou suggestions for next year – so if that’s what you want, there are 50 other race reports popping up all over social media, and from far more capable athletes than me.

My report is going to focus on the Survival Race from a personal perspective. I’m going to expose some things that are difficult to talk about. I’m going to share how, halfway through my year of training, the race took on a whole new meaning for me, and most importantly, I’m going to focus on how the people I met affected me. How new individuals came into my life at exactly the moment I believe they were supposed to show up. A living Celestine Prophecy.

I’m selfishly writing this for me, more than you.

This is Survival Run, Christian Griffith stylee, so yea, it’s gonna be a little weird.

Let’s start with Mikey

On the ferry over to Isle de Ometepe, the volcanic island in Nicaragua where the Fuego Y Agua 25k/50K/100K and Survival Run events take place, we met Mikey. Well, ok, “Mike.” Mike Jay. But, I call him Mikey.

Mikey impressed me within the first 10 minutes of meeting him, and this stoke only grew as I learned more and more about this man. He’s a retired Navy diver, currently living between the Nicaraguan surf town of San Juan del Sur, and Flagstaff, Arizona, in the states. He’s a veteran who has literally been through the shit, having served in the armpits of Afghanistan, and the Middle East, and who has scars from multiple bullet wounds.

In fact, I was lucky enough to meet one of his deepest homeboys – a man who carried him miles to safety as a wounded soldier in Afghanistan.

Heavy stuff. Heavy stuff in which I have no real frame of reference due to my sheltered existence, but stuff for which I carry great admiration and thankfulness.

Knowing that our room on the island sorta “feel through,” Mikey immediately stepped up to not only translate for me with the broken hotel, but also, and most graciously, offered us his room as roomies for a few days. This turned out to be the first in many “giving” moments with Mikey. Truly one of those people who cares more about stoking others, than himself.

I could go on and on and on about Mikey, and even his kick-ass lady, but unless you were there, it would probably be boring to you, and since I have the glorious gift of gab, I should probably just end his piece right here.

I love you, Mikey. I look forward to doing rim to rim to rim with you at the Grand Canyon this year, and hope that we remain boys, and grow our friendship for many years to come. You are one of those men that I admire, and aspire to emulate in my own life.

Buena onda, amigo.

Nervous Energy

Knowing there would be significant swimming in Survival Run, my arrival on the island had me worried. Because of my paralyzed diaphragm, I continue to struggle in the water – at least in comparison to the way I used to be where I was practically a human fish. The weight of the water constricts my chest and makes breathing a little more difficult, which in turn, creates small bouts of panic. Panic in the water es no bueno, so I have to concentrate intently on keeping my breathing steady and calm, keeping my heart rate low, and not allowing myself to panic, …ever.

Conditions on the island were very, very choppy, so being the cool dude Mikey is, we hit the water for some “comfort swimming” where I gained some confidence by swimming way out, a couple days in a row, to get comfortable with the challenging conditions. He taught me the combat swim stroke, and he and my friends Will, Haidar, and Shanna, swam distance and knocked out beach workouts to keep the butterflies away.

I went into the swim portion of the race with hella confidence, and actually crushed that part of the event, and I have Mikey and Will to thank for it. Chalk up yet another point for “the athletes” of Fuego Y Agua.

Race Day Doesn’t Always Go Your Way

Remember when I said I killed the swimming? Well, that was quickly negated by my inability to find my race number, so I might as well have just floated out there.

When Josue said, “go” we had to run about 5K down the beach, across some rocks, and then start swimming a little less than a mile towards “Bird Shit Island.” We were to retrieve an egg with a number on it, and then swim back with it without letting it break. I passed a lot of people on the swim to the island, and on the return swim back.

But once I ran to the plantain orchard to find my number, which was one of 45 numbers randomly attached to plantain trees somewhere in orchard, I couldn’t find my tree. I was there for what seemed like 45 minutes, seeing every number except my number. I heard runners come in, quickly find their tree, cut it down, cut off the bushel of plantains, and take off running for the next checkpoint, all while I floundered around, lost in the orchard, and number-less.

It got dark. I pulled out the headlamp, and finally found my tree.

Away I go, to the next checkpoint, with 16 pounds of plantains, my 25 lb pack, and a heavy load of frustrated aggravation.

Long Beach

I spent the next 30 minutes completely alone along a dark beach. Dark in Nicaragua is black-dark. No street lights (or very few), and very few “establishments.” It was so dark and lonely, I started to wonder if I had gone the wrong way down the beach. I came into the previous checkpoint around a lot of other athletes, but all of sudden found myself around no one.

On the beach, near the small hostel town of Santa Cruz, a drum circle of latin hippies pointed to a peninsula in front of me, and kept yelling “rocas” (which means rocks).

“Seriously?” I thought.

All that was there was a jagged, wet, slippery coastline of rocks. No discernible trail. No course markers. No confidence ribbons. Just rocks and trees and debris. We were to traverse this rocky coastline, for a looooong way. Slow, slippery and painful.

Luckily, Paul (American) and Luz (Nicaraguan), came up behind me, and I stayed with them almost the entire way to the dive challenge. Again, chalk one up for the athletes of FYA, as I never expected that section to be that long, and I started to turn back many times.

Early Low Point

The frustration associated with falling behind early, and then struggling on the rocks, had me a little mentally low. I started to question whether or not I was “Survival Race” material. “Should I have just stuck the ultramarathons like years past?”

I mean, “I’m no Nick Hollon, y’know…”

More miles passed, more challenges, and by the time I arrived at the grueling sand bag carry challenge, I just put my head down, ground out five trips up the 200 meter hill, with my heavy bags of sand, and spoke to almost no one.

Making It Up on Maderas

“Christian, you’re going to need to make up some time on the climb up Maderas,” said race coordinator, Sean Meehan.

Talk about another mental blow… I mean, I realize many of you don’t know about these volcanoes, and how hard they are, but imagine gaining about 1000 feet per 1K of distance. We’re talking 4,500 feet of climbing, about 3.5 – 4 hours of straight-up, with no switch-backs, and hella muddy. Like, shoe-sucking muddy. Hardly the place to consider “making up time.”

And worse, I was completely out of water.

People who know me are shaking their heads right now. Go ahead. It’s ok, I know what you are thinking. “Christian is such a race planning mess.”

And you’d be right.

And Then, The Lowest Point

After trying to tough it out sans water, I finally started sitting down at various points in the climb, fatigued, thirsty, probably dehydrated, and waiting for others to catch up, so I could beg for a sip of water.

Probably my biggest savior at this point was the incredibly strong female athlete, Ekaterina Solovieva. She came up behind me all positive and bubbly an’ shit, and offered me all kinds of water. I think I fell in love.

This started a pattern of drinking from “Solo,” then moving ahead. Stopping. Waiting for Solo. Drinking from Solo. Then, Moving on ahead… repeat.

Until we eventually summited the volcano, dropped into the crater, and then, promptly told, “Christian, I gotta turn you around…” Gabi Stephens was volunteering and climbing back out of the crater, unaware that the cut-offs had been extended, and thus turning us around, which then had me turning around people coming up behind me.

And I thought my race was over.

BUT, like I promised myself coming into Survival Race, I was NOT going to quit. The only way I am walking off the course is if I am told specifically to do so. Otherwise, I will keep moving, no matter how slow and damaged.

I caught up to Nicaraguan, Luz, and although we didn’t say much as we ran down the mountain, it was nice to be together, and I think we both benefited from the mutual company. I stopped her from getting lost multiple times

The sun came up. I was 12-13 hours into the race, and starting to come alive.

Better late than never.

It a’int Over ’til the Fat Lady Sings

Running at a decent clip, Luz and I came cruising into the checkpoint at the bottom of the volcano, just as the course designer, Ben, was instructing other athletes on the challenges necessary to complete this checkpoint.

Challenge: Roll a rock, well over 100 pounds, through a dried creek bed, and up a hill, for somewhere around a ridiculous 50 yards or more, before sawing down a bamboo stalk and climbing a tree with it. Looking back, and hearing all racer stories, I learned you could have carried the rock, and some did, which would have been right in my wheelhouse, but nope, I’m stupid, and actually tried to roll a square rock for 45 minutes…

I was about to time out again, so I left, with female competitor, Nele Schulz, before we both got pulled, and finally getting a chance to get to know her. Nele is a Spartan Death Race competitor, and popular athlete in our little sick circle, and I was curious to learn what she was all about.

Another challenge skipped, but still in the game.

I was about to regret being “still in the game.”

The Mean, Nasty, Evil, Slippery, Dangerous, Challenging, Rocks

Nele and I were actually having a rather pleasant morning, minus the 150 degree temps at 8:00 a.m., and the piercing sun searing our skulls on the open dirt road. We took time to talk to competitors, who had made the previous challenges, and thus were walking down the road carrying bamboo. Female leader Corinne, and somewhere-in-the-front-pack John Taylor, were both in decent spirits considering we were all shot-out, sleepy, and somewhat shocked at the race difficulty thus far.

The four of us happened upon a little local store, …well, really, just a house with a Nica family selling sodas out of an Igloo cooler…, and scored some sugary sex. It’s was an ice cold life-saver, but like most cold things in the jungle, fleeting.

It wasn’t long before we found ourselves at what I found to be the most difficult challenge of any of them – the long, “who-knows-how-many-miles,” rock traverse. Course designer, Ben, said he’s done this traverse in 2.5 hours, but fresh. It took us over 4 hours, not even close to fresh, and feeling unsure and lost the entire time.

By this time, Nele and I had teamed up with Mike Ruhlin, the quiet beast, and the three of us scattered across the rocks, swam around difficult sections (with our packs, of course), and did our best to bush-whack around points that we simply could not find a way around otherwise, or that we thought might be smarter – which it never was. But, had it not been for Mike and Nele, I may have, at best, had a complete nervous breakdown out there, or at worst, flat-out froze on the rocks, convinced I was lost, and waiting for a rescue boat.

I cannot express how helpful it was to find slivers of shade during this rock-climbing-scrambling-crawling section, and sit down with my new friends, and bitch about how crazy Ben and Josue are to think this is something we should be doing, now 15-16 hours into the race. “Adapt or Die,” the race motto, continued to pound in my head, and we’d suck it up, slip on our soaked packs, and scramble on.

“Guys, You’re Done”

Oh my God, music to my ears. The race directors made the decision to stop us from climbing Concepcion, the final section of the race, as it was most likely that we would not make the cut-offs, and bringing down the volunteers made sense. Nele, being the bulldog that she is, argued for a mere second, and I shot her the most searing stink-eye. “NOOOOO, NELE. SHUT UP.” I was done. Dehydrated, hot, tired, and dead-legged. I did not want to climb, and was happy to get pulled; but if they would have let us, and Nele would have gone, I would have had to have gone, too, dammit.

We made our way to the final checkpoint before the Concepcion climb, and I cried to whoever would listen about how thirsty I was, and how badly my body hurt. Then, promptly crawled in the back of a pickup track, laying on an empty kayak, took off my mud-caked shoes, and waited for the ride back to start/finish, where I’d eat 2 full meals of fish, lobster, shrimp, chicken, beef and pork with gallo pinto (beans and rice), fried cheese, salad, plantains, and 8 glasses of passion fruit juice. Oh, and a bowl of ice cream. Maybe, two.

Success …kinda.

What Makes a Successful Race

Let’s be perfectly clear, I did not finish Survival Race. Not officially, not unofficially, not even close. I did not cover the entire distance, did not complete all the challenges, and even if time permitted, some things were just too challenging for me; but I did not quit. Even when I thought my race was over, I kept moving as though I was still in the fight – and I was. It’s a good lesson, both for racing and life:

Never give up, never give in, and never walk off a course until you are specifically told to do so. And even then, continue to question it. Continue to fight until the bell rings.

But besides the event itself, 2015 was yet another Fuego Y Agua success because, like every other year, I came away with new friends, new perspective, and new growth. If it wasn’t for the following people, my race and experiences on Isle de Ometepe would not have been the same.

Shout-outs

Check out these shout-outs, and while you are, imagine yourself being here next year, and experiencing the same kind of things:

Ben, Sean and Josue

You guys out-did yourselves, and Josue, once again, I cussed your name a record number of times, convinced that you are a true masochist. I feel sorry for Corinne. But seriously, we’ve been boys for 5 years now, and you continue to impress me with your growth as an RD, your vision, and your dedication to making the most difficult events on the planet.

Anna Dager

Sharing this event experience with my cousin continues to make this event a new kind of special for me. Watching you come in, 4th female, and blazingly fast, during the grueling 50K impressed me so much, and I pounded my chest saying, “that’s MY cousin,” all weekend. I sure hope this becomes tradition for us.

Ryan Allday

Dude, sharing some serious shit with you has my mind stirring. I appreciate the straight-up advice, calling me on my bullshit, and helping me to see past my fears and reliance on money, pride, popularity and all the other shallow, meaningless crap. Love you, brutha’.

Shanna Bordner

Seriously? You’re human? I won’t believe it until its proven to me. Congratulations on your 100K finish, and knocking out beach workouts with you was a blast. I had a total conversation with you while you slept in the hammock, post-race.

Mike Jay

Whatever, dude. I already threw a bunch of love at you. And, by the way, Annie is the bomb, and I love her, and you should marry her, and live happily ever after in Arizona, …and then sell me your beach place in San Juan. Done… I’ll pay you $20 month.

Solo

You, along with others, saved my life on Maderas by hydrating me. I’m not sure how or why I thought I could clear that section with no water; but, the biggest thrill of all was being carried 3/4 of a mile, on your back, during the beer mile. My first Beer Mile, and as usual for me, done uniquely and differently.

Many tightly formed bonds, some new, and some renewed, that will continue to run past the life of Facebook. You are all family, and if anyone of you doesn’t make the trip next year, there will be a hole in the game. Love my Survival Tribe. Love this band of weirdos.

Jason Rita (and film crew)

Thank you for being such a strong supporter of me. I loved doing the interviews for the show, and love talking about the Survival Run experience. I can’t help but get really excited and expressive – like a kid – and you totally feed it, allowing me to just express myself. Thank you.

Jeff Genova

G-Unit, we’ve been boys for years now, but I watched you blossom as a photographer during these events. You went over and above to score great shots, and I encourage everyone to go buy some. Incredible. You made me feel good, and proud, and like a real athlete.

Gabi Stephens (and friends)

As usual, you surround yourself around special people. Jenni and Kate were flat-out awesome, and I feel lucky to have gotten to know them both; and of course, Brendon and Andrew being around is super special for me. It’s so cool watching them grow up inside this FYA family, and the relationship I have developed with the kids makes me feel part of the family. “Christian Stephens.” It has a ring to it, ya know?

Mark Wheeler

A special shout-out to Devil’s Double finisher, Mark Wheeler, cuz bro, you are the real deal, man. At 45 years old this year, I struggle so much with getting older, and feeling like it’s starting to take its toll; and then athletes like you show up and destroy all preconceived concerns about age. You became my biggest inspiration, and I admire you greatly – not only your athletic prowess, but as a damn good man, as well. (with a beautiful wife, too, doh!)

Volunteers and Anyone Else I missed

Without the volunteers, there is no race. No safety. No instruction. No guidance. Seeing a smiling face, even when I know you guys were working like 12-14 hour days, was really uplifting. Thank you, thank you, thank you. And thank you to all the individuals who touched my race, and FYA experience, and sent me home feeling like this.

I feel complete. Strong. Good. …and happy.

Another successful Fuego Y Agua event experience. Who’s in for 2016? We have a an extra bed…

]]>http://run100miles.com/goruck-kill-5k-ruck-race/feed/0Born Again 100-Milerhttp://run100miles.com/thunder-rock-100-race-report/
http://run100miles.com/thunder-rock-100-race-report/#commentsTue, 20 May 2014 15:52:33 +0000http://run100miles.com/?p=3551A Thunder Rock 100 Mile Trail Race Report It was the kid’s first 100 mile race. “this may sound cheesy, but ever since I started doing ultras, I’ve followed your race reports and adventures…,” he said as we made our way down the start of the seemingly lonely and long gravel road section. But, to […]

A Thunder Rock 100 Mile Trail Race Report

It was the kid’s first 100 mile race.

“this may sound cheesy, but ever since I started doing ultras, I’ve followed your race reports and adventures…,” he said as we made our way down the start of the seemingly lonely and long gravel road section.

But, to me, it wasn’t cheesy at all. I beamed with pride.

When I first started, I sought out the same kind of kindred souls, too. I read the writings and ramblings of lots of runners, and vowed that while my writing style would probably be a lot different, I too, would share my stoke with those who sought it; and with now over 80 race reports live on this website, I can offer a pretty deep look into the life, growth, drama, ups, downs, and complete chaos that is ultrarunning.

Mission accomplished, but I “ain’t” about to stop anytime soon.

By the way, the kid whooped my butt by over 3 hours.

Congrats Benj.

The Randyland 100

I’m not sure if Joe Fejes made that name up, but when I saw his email the night before, with this as the subject line, and being the great friend he is, predicting my race failure an’ all, I busted out laughing.

Randy Whorton, the race director, is a longtime, seasoned ultrarunner, known for liking tough courses and participating in challenging runs. Joe and Randy are friends, and he had been warning me not to take this lightly. Regardless of how the race was written up, Joe expected it to be very challenging, and as usual, Joe was right.

But of course, I never listened, and walked around like the rest of my group expecting something rather tame.

Here’s a quickie race snapshot

100.2 miles (although I believe it to be at least 103 miles)

The first 40 miles is full of insanely beautiful single-track

Miles 41-70 was mostly agonizing, unforgiving gravel logging roads

Miles 74-82 was super muddy, rocky dirt trails, but mostly descending

Mile 82 offered us a waist-deep river crossing

Miles 83-87 offered us the most ridiculous, late-race climb @ 2200 feet

Miles 87-93 was more annoying logging roads, and a tiny bit of pavement

Miles 93 – 100+ was very technical, beautiful rocky trail, that eventually brought us home

I’ve never been able to run a 100-miler in 24 hours. Partly because the courses I choose are pretty tough, but mostly because I’m just not good at 100-mile races. The longer the race, the worse I do. But, because of my delusional perception of this upcoming race, and my strong desire to do so, and despite my lack of specificity training, I shouted out that I was going for my 24-hour finish at Thunder Rock.

What a joke I am.

The Race is Only Part of the Adventure

I sometimes wonder what the rest of the ultrarunning community thinks of us.

We are loud, obnoxious, hyper, over-excited, talkative, ridiculous, and completely oblivious to everything around us, except us. “Li’l Weezy” is probably the most outrageous, and now that he’s addicted to the show ‘Justified,’ his redneck(ness) has skyrocketed to a whole new level.

I would like to publically apologize to the Blue Ridge Brewery, Serenity Hotel, as well as anyone within 100 yards of us during the first mile of the race. Whatever you heard, whatever shenanigans made you roll your eyes, or wonder who these obnoxious a-holes were, it was all in good fun, I promise.

Thunder Rock, Aid Station 1, Mile 5.45

From the word go, we found ourselves on incredibly beautiful, mildly-technical ridge trail, that gradually weaved around, up and down, for almost six miles. I love to pay attention to the “social” side of 100-milers, listening to overly-talkative people, or the trail-side advice-givers, or the opposite – those people who run for 10 miles with that “deer in headlights” look having just realized what they started.

So many stories playing out. So much training (or lack thereof) being put to an ultimate test.

You know some of these people will not even be in the game 8, 12, 15 hours from now …and you also know, you might be one of ‘em.

I rolled into mile 5.45 feeling strong, running well, and happy.

Deep Gap, Aid Station 2, Mile 14.87

“Crap, is that hail?” I thought to myself as I ran out of the first aid station.

Yup, it was hail, and it was coming down hard. Luckily, I ducked into the trailhead, and we had such a nice canopy of cover, it didn’t hammer me too badly. That would come later.

Mile 10. The sky is black. Thunder booming, lightning crashing, and here we are running on a high ridge, next to a powerline cut, and there’s is only one thing that could make it sketchier – more hail.

So, of course, it hailed. Again.

Running with Matt Davis at that point, we came into the 15-mile aid station feeling pretty good, albeit drenched.

This would become a reoccuring theme throughout the entire race.

Reliance, Aid Station 3, Mile 25.34

Again, what more can I say about the beauty of this course? I was enjoying the terrain so much, I was convincing myself that this race was going to be different. I was NOT going to suffer like I have in so many other 100-mile races. No sir. No way. I was ready, and this terrain was pretty easy.

Someday, I will learn humility.

Weezy caught up to us, and the three of us moved nicely for miles and miles of muddy river trail. If you’ve ever run Laurel Valley, this section felt much like that – damp, muddy, and jurassic-like, with the awesome sounds of rushing water and birds, and the huffin’ and puffin’ of a few ultrarunners gettin’ it done.

Weezy and I rolled into mile 25, with me jumping in puddles directly aimed at him, doing my best to soak his annoying ass.

Still having fun.

Powerhouse, Aid Station 4, Mile 32.54

This was the John Muir trail section. It’s no exaggeration when I say this might be the most enjoyable time I have ever had running trails. The combination of the calm river section, with the late afternoon sun, running on top of postcard-looking trail, in cool temps – man… it was really nice. I’d like to go back and run that again – or any race that happens to utilize that trail.

At the trailhead, while I stopped to make like a bear in the woods, Li’l Weezy handed me some wet wipes, went on ahead, and I never saw him again.

And there would be no catching him, either.

I rolled into Powerhouse, alone, but still feeling good, with now 50K (32 miles) packed tightly in the bank.

by the way, you two “cheaters” that I saw on the road, and you know who you are, who cut the entire section of trail, should have gone back to where you missed the turn, and completed the course correctly. When I saw you behind me later in the race, I was going to educate you of such, but you never caught me. Guilty conscious, perhaps? I don’t know you, or I’d call you out right here, but if you finished, you really didn’t, and I hope that annoys you to death.

Sorry for the bit o’ negativity, but this acceptance of course-cutting is driving me crazy, and bad for the sport.

I promise you if DeWayne Satterfield, or Dink Taylor, or Rob Youngren, or Sally Brooking, or Janice Anderson, or Rich Schick, or just about any of the ultra legends I’ve come up with, and respect deeply, ever found themselves in a situation of missing a turn, they’d go back, retrace, and get back on course, and complete the race with integrity. And, if they caught someone course cutting, they’d speak up loudly.

I believe the new school should carry the same level of integrity. K, ’nuff of that…

Coker Falls, Aid Station 5, Mile 39.27

Coker was a long section of trail (felt long, anyway), with quite a bit of climbing, technical trail, and loads of rocks; but, like the section before it, stupid-gorgeous with Western States-like rocky ridges, expansive views into the valleys, and towards the end of the section, crazy-loud water falls with a thundering river.

I knew that all this beautiful single-track was about to come to an end, and I was sad. I can’t stand gravel logging roads, and I knew I was about to get served with about 35 miles of it.

Damn.

Manning Cabin, Aid Station 7, Mile 45.87

This is about where things started to come unglued for me.

I was sick of the constant roller coaster of logging roads. Long ups, and long downs, over and over, in the dark, and aside from my little conversation with Benj that I opened this report with, I was mostly alone.

An idle mind is a bad place in the middle of a hundo.

The best thing about this section was the Aloha aid station at the end of it. They had bacon, and I proudly made a pig of myself.

All I wanted to do was get to mile 50, pick up my pacer Ryan Holler, and have a friend to complain to…

Servilla, Aid Station 8, Mile 50 (yay!)

Getting to this checkpoint was an adventure.

Halfway through the section I hear, “hey boy, what ‘chu up to out here?”

I never even saw the dude coming up beside me, nor do I have any idea where he came from, but he was not friendly, and he had a gun. It was holstered, but he had his right hand on it, and he was making it very clear that he had it.

I was rattled a little, but pointed to one of the Rock Creek race flags that designated the course, and said, “I’m doing a race.”

He did not seem like he was buying it, and I started to get nervous. I mean, I kind of get it. It was pitch-black. I’m all alone. It’s almost midnight. And there is nothing stirring but a few stray dogs. I mean, I’m a big, strong boy, but I’m also a complete mess at the moment – tired, in the dark, stiff – and really just not in the headspace for any kind of altercation, AND certainly not one with a redneck with a revolver.

Luckily, I remember that a dude had come into the aid station behind me a few miles ago, so he likely would be coming up shortly, so I told the guy, “if you don’t believe me, there is a guy coming up behind me who will also look like this, and also have a headlamp, and also be running in this race.”

He grumbled some stuff I didn’t understand, said he’d “remember my face,” and then just disappeared into the darkness.

Five minutes later, dude behind me catches up, and I tell him about it, and we both just chalked it up to a over-eager wanna-be playing Sheriff, and continued to move on.

Iron Gap, Aid Station 9, Mile 53.99

Few words for this short section. Good news, I now had my pacer. Bad news, it was a long, very long, 3.1 mile climb, straight up gravel.

Ryan and I just power-hiked the crap out of it while discussing the merits of Jesus.

Bullet Creek, Aid Station 10, Mile 59.09

More of the same.

Up and down gravel. I found myself longing to run single-track, like the first 40 miles. All I could really do was power-hike these gravel roads, and occasionally attempt a very pathetic shuffle when Ryan would make me run.

I don’t know anything about race directing, but why, with all this beautiful single-track around, did we have to run on these Mountain Masochist style gravel roads?

I was getting cranky. And slow.

Star Mountain, Aid Station 11, Mile 64.79

Yup, you guessed it, more gravel.

Look at the elevation chart. Just a solid series of ups and downs that hit my race like body blows to a boxer. A methodical beatdown that was breaking me exponentially.

Iron Gap, Aid Station 12, Mile 74.33

By the time we got back this aid station, I was starting to become concerned with my pace, my race attitude, and my feet – all of which were heading south at a rapid pace.

The sun was now up on the second day, and sleep deprivation had me physically spent, mentally scrambled, and emotionally numb.

But I still, even in all this pain and blah, never once contemplated dropping out.

I was determined to fight the demons. I was determined to get that damn buckle.

Hiwassee River, Aid Station 13 & 14, Mile 82-83

I always find miles 75-100 to be the most emotionally trying. It’s close enough to know that you will most likely finish, but it’s also some of the most brutal miles to endure because you are so banged up and you have a marathon to go – and you know just how far a marathon really is. Plus, notice I said “most likely” finish. I’ve been pulled at mile 80 before (Western States, 2010) by the medical team, and that was NO FUN AT ALL.

Getting to this aid station, and thus the river crossing, was easily the worst section for me. Ryan knew it, and pretty much left me alone. Just a beat up pudgy dude, covered with tats, all pony-tailed and crawling around the trails of the Hiwassee with grumpy face.

However, once I got to the river crossing, I perked up quite a bit, because:

The river-crossing, while cold, was an interesting change

I saw my friend Adam yelling my name from the other side

The aid station had gobs of bacon and grilled cheese

And once I got across the river with the help of some ropes, my drop bag was waiting for me with nice, comfortable Hoka Stinsons, in which I planned to finish the race.

Getting a moment, even if just a very brief 5 minutes, to see some of my friends, and sit down, and collect myself, was really helpful for my mood and overall race disposition.

This is good, because I was about to need it more than ever.

Oswald Dome, Aid Station 15, Mile 87.51

Dude. Seriously? Who does this?

The next section was a 4-mile climb, straight up, 2,200 feet, with a series of 15 switch-backs that felt like they’d never end. And true to east coast trail running, false summits appeared everywhere, only to find ourselves climbing again, and again.

Perhaps this would have been more entertaining with fresh legs, but with 82 miles wearing o-so-heavy, I wanted to cry – but I didn’t – I just put my head down and quietly marched up the damn mountain …in the pouring rain, as was par for the course that day.

As frustrated as I got with the climb, there was no denying the beauty of the early morning lighting, coupled with a bright green, thick and lush forest. It was very primal.

Top the section off with getting mooned by a female runner trying to pee, and I’ll pretty much call that section a win!

McCarny Lake, Aid Station 16, Mile 93.29

Once we left Oswald, we were presented with another heapin’ helpin’ of gravel road; but this time, I was not necessarily opposed because I was whooped from the single-track climbing, and I knew it would be faster. Faster terrain = faster to the finish.

Nothing of any great circumstance happened other than my pacer running circles around me, up and down the mountain, like I was standing still.

Just please get me to the last aid station…

Crawling to the Finish, 100.2 miles

Getting to the last aid station in any race is always a huge relief for me. It’s pretty much a guarantee that you are going to finish the race; but in this particular circumstance, I NEVER thought I’d get through this last section.

Aid station volunteers told us 5.8 miles to the finish.

We believed them.

We hammered to try to break 28 hours. I thought I could easily roll in at 27:35 or so, so we ran hard. Harder than I had run over the last 50 miles.

And no finish.

Miles kept clicking off. The watch beeped. Another mile. No finish.

Finally, I had to back-off. I shot myself out over 5 miles of running with all I had left, and I was nowhere near the finish.

I’ve heard a number of stories now, all very different, about why this happened like this during the final section of the race, but we honestly ran for three more miles before we finally heard the generators and the cheers for runners just a few feet ahead of us. That last section was 8 miles at the very least, and perhaps longer by some measurements.

I was frustrated then, but once I was in a warm car, with a cool buckle in my hand, I no longer cared.

I was no longer frustrated with the long finish, nor the long climb at mile 82 …nor the winding trail that seemed to NEVER deliver me to the water crossing …nor the miles and miles of gravel road.

Nope, once I had that buckle, like all the others, it became the greatest race of all time, and I couldn’t wait to talk about with my friends, and share the stories here for those who like to read about such ridiculousness.

I finished the Thunder Rock 100 inaugural race, and dammit, I’m most likely coming back next year.

What Did I Learn?

I always like to come away with some lessons. Here is what I feel like I learned at TR100:

There are some people with the personality of a tree trunk in our sport

Randy and Kris put a TON of work into this course planning

They also know how to find kick-ass volunteers

Weezy is getting stoopid fast, and light, and with that comes a more mouthy weezle.

Lastly, I can finish a challenging 100-miler without specificity training – just nowhere near front pack

Suggestions

Yes. I’d like to make some.

NO MORE FREAKING GRAVEL ROADS, PLEASE.

(and maybe a li’l meatier buckle, jus’ sayin…)

That’s all. That’s my only suggestion(s). I believe this race would have been the most incredible race ever created had the first 40 miles been the terrain we ran for the entire hundo. IMHO, make the race like that, and there would be nothing even close that would compare in terms of rugged beauty, varying terrain and runner stoke.

I can’t say enough about the BMT and John Miur trails. Sometimes, I’d just look around and think to myself, “dude, get over your struggles with God, cuz brother, you cruising right smack dab through his backyard.”

Thank you

Thank you, Whortons, for a fine event and for offering us some challenging terrain.

Thank you volunteers for your selflessness, so we could be selfish.

Lastly, thank you Ryan Holler, for being my “safety runner,” and Adam J. for simply being Adam J. – if you know him, you get it …if you don’t, well, there is not enough Internet to explain this dude.

…and Weezy, bro, I still don’t know how you ran that course that fast. As annoying as you are, I humbly bow to your performance. In our little group of friends, you outshined us all. Mad props to the weezle.

]]>http://run100miles.com/thunder-rock-100-race-report/feed/4Not What I Expectedhttp://run100miles.com/not-what-i-expected/
http://run100miles.com/not-what-i-expected/#commentsWed, 19 Mar 2014 14:57:11 +0000http://run100miles.com/?p=3536I expected to hate it. To most runners it sounds like complete and total Hell; and non-runners? Well, these kind of events just confirm their beliefs that we are completely insane and have some serious issues. I mean, really, could it sound any worse? Running Laps Around a High School Track for 24 Hours I’ve never […]

To most runners it sounds like complete and total Hell; and non-runners? Well, these kind of events just confirm their beliefs that we are completely insane and have some serious issues.

I mean, really, could it sound any worse?

Running Laps Around a High School Track for 24 Hours

I’ve never really been a fan of the fixed-time event format in ultrarunning.

Trail running has always been far more appealing to me. I prefer to start my race at a trailhead, in some beautiful area of the World, running through varying, exotic terrain, before finally (hopefully) finishing some 32, 40, 50, 62, or 100 miles away at yet another gorgeous trailhead – in other words, I like running mountain trails, through nature, from one point to another, best.

These fixed-time events consist of runners, circling some kind of track, at a fixed distance, for a fixed time, in an effort to accumulate as many miles as possible in that fixed amount of time. It’s a great way to chase distance records.

But, where trail running seems to be a rapidly growing format in the sport of ultramarathoning, fixed-time events, once the most popular form of the sport, have been seemingly fading with the new school.

On the surface, and from a layman view, there are a million-and-one reasons to see why this is true.

But, as a competitor on Saturday, I learned it goes much deeper than “the surface”.

This report… My Experience… is about going much deeper.

Which of These is Not Like the Other

Can you pick out the athlete who clearly does not look like the other athletes? And I’m not talking about the candy-ass pose, long hair and flower tattoos, either.

Looking around, I knew I was outta place. Hell, I knew I was outta place the night before when I picked up 28-year-old, 130lb, World Record holder, Zach Bitter, at the airport, and learned of his amazing accomplishments. Or, when I met “whippet” Harvey Lewis and his girlfriend Kelly at the hotel, both looking like they were ripped from the pages of Runner’s World magazine.

Harvey, would go on to run just shy of 155 miles and qualify for the USA National Team.

But, I had some goals, too. I had never run 100 miles in under 24 hours, and I wanted to do it. Had I trained for this? Well, no, but I train very hard and fast at short distances, and have been clipping off some new, post-paralysis personal records at the 5K, 10K and half-marathon distances. Plus, I’m a pretty fit dude, with lots of confidence, so I thought that perhaps if I just went for it, I might just be able to do it.

While I may have gone into the event with a flippant, perhaps borderline disrespectful view of this style of running, I came out of the experience educated, humbled, and dare I say it – a fan?

Round and Round and Round We Go

I’m pretty sure their ultra racing careers now feel complete, as both super elites, Zach and Harvey, got to experience a ride in the Blue Beast Ultra-wagon as we made our way to the start. My 2003 Ford Excursion is becoming an iconic vehicle in the sport. Many a’stinky runner has spent some time inside her walls.

At the track, there was the usual buzz with a camera crew interviewing people who matter, Ray K running around snapping pictures, shaking hands, and being nutty. Runners were nervously pacing around while crews were setting up their runner’s aid stations and going over individual “game plans.”

I didn’t have a crew. Nor a game plan. But I knew American Record holder, Joe Fejes, would be there, so I didn’t worry. I knew he’d take care of me even if he wasn’t officially my crew.

At 10:00 a.m., we met our individual time keepers, all students of Ray’s, shook hands, took a group pic, and then, well, …started running.

The Crying Game

I’m just going to get right to the most interesting part of the race, at least to me. Then, I am going to share some of the elements that made this kind of running so unique and compelling to me.

First, one of the things I found so incredibly interesting was the amount of crying I witnessed during the race. Very early into the event, more than one of the females began experiencing issues, mostly due to nutrition, hydration, or my personal belief, the heat. These are fierce, capable female competitors and as a newbie, I was a little surprised.

Because you are looping a 400m track, you see pretty much everything. I saw girls crying, hunched-over dry-heaving and/or actually throwing up. A coupe of ‘em couldn’t eat, nor keep food down, and it was causing them much distress, so naturally, they’d cry.

Now you might think I’m being derogatory, but I’m not. I was fascinated. Why? Because every single one of these females bounced back in one capacity or another. While they most likely never recovered to the point they wanted to be, nor did they end up with the race they may have expected, most continued to log miles, stayed on the track the entire 24 hours, …and well, not that it’s any great feat, but they beat the crap outta me.

The lesson for me – maybe, as dudes, a good cry is exactly what we need to blow off debilitating race drama, and get on with things.

+1 for the females.

A Game of Risk and Reward

Now certainly, different strategies exist for different athletes, but generally, run too fast, too early, and you can be sure to pay for it. Begin slowly, taking very short, frequent walk breaks, and you can stay out on the track much longer, feeling much better.

While I don’t necessarily believe I went out too terribly fast, I did run the first half-marathon or so without any walk breaks whatsoever. This ended up being a mistake, and by the time it got really hot, with a driving, unrelenting sun overhead, and only about 3-4 hours into the race, I was already doing that sludge run with my head hanging heavily, and my pace crawling down the track.

“Keep doing what your doing,” Joe would yell out each lap. “We’ll worry about quality miles later.”

“F U, Joe.”

I started to get really concerned, so of course, instead of reviewing my own shortcomings and mistakes, I tried to blame the event.

“I hate this sh*t!” I’d yell at Joe. But secretly, I was enjoying the “event,” just not my uber-evident lack of fixed-time experience and race management.

Harvey to the Rescue

Harvey Lewis, you know, the dude that ripped off 155 miles? Well, he’s the proverbial Gandhi of running, I’m convinced. Everything he said to me on the track proved to be true. He clearly has a wealth of knowledge and experience, and while he could have just thought to himself, “screw this fat guy constantly in my way,” he instead took time out to instruct me.

The dude would run up on me and tell me to walk more as it was evident I was fading fast. He suggested that I walk half of the turns and run all of the straights. If I still didn’t recover, walk the complete turns, and run the straights.

It worked.

Like magic.

I was ripping off laps and miles at much faster splits.

Even Joe noticed, and kept saying, “whatever you are doing, you are looking much, much stronger.”

I smiled all proud and stuff because Joe is not only my friend, he’s a bit of a hero, …even if he is a bald and deaf bastard.

This strategy held me together tightly, for a really, really long time, and by the time I hit 100K (62 miles), I was still running pretty damn strong, with no issues beyond the expected level of fatigue and muscle soreness.

The Dam Breaks Loose

How many of you are sick of hearing about my paralyzed diaphragm? Wave hands wildly, it’s ok. I get it. But it is a very real circumstance for me, and because of it, I have some unique challenges when it comes to running – some of which I have yet to discover …as I did on Saturday.

I had just completed 320 laps I think, about 78 miles, or so, and started to notice that I could not recover from the walk breaks anymore. I’d try to run and my chest would just tighten like crazy, and I’d start coughing like a asthmatic. People’s natural reaction is to offer me inhalers, thinking its my lungs, which I guess it is in the end, but it’s my breathing-muscle fatigue that prohibits me from clearing my lungs.

Anyway, with my inability to take in adequate oxygen, the all-too-familiar chain events began:

Lack of oxygen means no fuel for the muscles

No fuel for the muscles equates to rapid cramping, tightness and fatigue

It’s always very scary, and VERY frustrating. As a dude who grew up as a kind of golden child, with perfect health, these circumstances always make me feel like the handicap that I am, and I get really, really down on myself.

And like that, at ~80 miles, my race was done.

Joe later told me it was like a light switch – from running really well and consistent, to ghost-white and clueless. I even had to crawl out of my truck, where I was resting, to ask Joe for help as the coughing became uncontrollable. My body was trying to shut down, I think.

But, true to the top-notch quality of this race, Ray K ushered over a doctor and another guy, and they wrapped me in about 5 sleeping bags, and talked to me to help calm me down. I think I was sorta delirious as I remember going on and on about how proud I was of my grandfather. Sorry guys, if I was weird – I was oxygen-depleted.

And You Say You Are Now a Fan?

I am.

First, I love things I suck at because its gives me a huge number of goals to shoot for and benchmarks to break. I will get my 100 miles in under 24 hours. You can count on that, and I will not be stopped because of this limitation. I will train harder, race smarter, and learn from those around me. I must encourage others with limitations that you can still have goals. Still chase dreams. Still beat the odds.

It’s my therapy.

Second, I really liked the concept of being able to race, and view the race, the entire time I was on the track. It’s a constant education inside a community of like-minded friends.

Third, I enjoyed running with some of the most incredible male and female athletes in our sport, and witnessing some amazing records go down. Even if some of the expecteds didn’t break records, watching them run, recover, and race manage was a virtual ultramarathon clinic for me.

And lastly, this is ultrarunning, and one of the greatest things about it is how the mutual suffering brings people together. Once again, I made new friends, turned some virtual relationships into real friendships, and dug myself deeper into this culture we call ultramarathon running.

]]>http://run100miles.com/not-what-i-expected/feed/8Did That Really Happen?http://run100miles.com/did-that-really-happen/
http://run100miles.com/did-that-really-happen/#commentsWed, 19 Feb 2014 12:59:06 +0000http://run100miles.com/?p=3456A 2014 Fuego Y Agua Race Experience “WE GOTTA GET DOWN! WE GOTTA GET DOWN!” he screamed repeatedly, over and over and over, butt-sliding left and right across the warm bed of scree-like lava rocks. The wind was blowing incredibly hard, so violently that the little bit of sweaty clothes we did have on cracked […]

A 2014 Fuego Y Agua Race Experience

“WE GOTTA GET DOWN! WE GOTTA GET DOWN!” he screamed repeatedly, over and over and over, butt-sliding left and right across the warm bed of scree-like lava rocks.

The wind was blowing incredibly hard, so violently that the little bit of sweaty clothes we did have on cracked and smacked our skin like wet towels in a locker room.

It was so loud. Like a freight train. 60 mph, 70 mph, 80 mph, who knows? We didn’t have that kind of science available to us, but this is for damn sure – if you stood up, it’s very likely, you would go down.

And going down on Volcan Concepcion can mean a multitude of things – getting blown down, getting blown into a cave-in, or getting blown into the damn crater of the volcano. It’s a race situation that might just be the most surreal moment I have ever experienced.

“#$%^! WHERE’S THE TRAILHEAD!?!?”

“Oh, my God, I can’t see the trailhead!” Eddie continued to yell out, but I could barely hear him. He was less than 12 feet away from me, but I could barely hear him or see him. Between the yells of both Eddie and Gerardo, I couldn’t hear anything clearly, just muffled noises sounding like Charlie Brown’s teacher in a Peanuts episode.

For a moment, a very brief, but very real moment, I had to contemplate, “what will happen to us if we are stuck up here?”

Josue Doesn’t Play

The quote that summed up the entire 2014 Fuego Y Agua trip was made by race director, Josue Stephens as I limped over to him, a few hours after the official finish of the grueling 100K ultramarathon, and simply asked, “why?”

In typical, Josue-style, he merely said, “I wanted to make it harder this year.”

And that he did. Clearly, 50% finisher rates of the previous years were too many finishers for him. He had to go bigger. Harder. More challenging.

Even as a victim of such changes, I can honestly say, without hesitation, that I am glad he did.

Changes for the Better?

In previous years, we ascended Volcan Maderas, the 4500 foot dormant volcano, with about 18 miles on our legs. This year, because we started in the small beach community of Santo Domingo, we hit the volcano fresh, with less than 5 miles in the bank.

This made climbing Maderas quite a bit easier, but shockingly, not much faster. Perhaps I found myself in a chatty group for far too long, because once I broke away from the group, I started climbing very fast.

A lot of runners who only had last year as a frame of reference for conditions, complained about the deep and grueling mud during the last 200 meters of the climb, as well as the knee-deep muddy conditions at the top, in the crater, and deep inside the jungle gym section; but having done this race four times, I knew this is the way it usually is, and that last year was pretty much a fluke of dryness.

Volcan Maderas also had a couple of dramatic blow-downs as runners descended into the crater, which for those of us with obstacle experience, made for some fun challenges.

photo credit: Jack Jewell

Fuego Y Agua races require significant use of the upper body and hands to navigate the raw jungle terrain, but it also really breaks up the running, and adds a Tarzan feel unmatched by any ultra I have ever done in the states.

Grab Your Partner, It’s Time for Heatdown

Now, remember when I said we used to hit Volcan Maderas after running 18 miles of the race course, first?

Well, that 18 miles was run primarily in the dark, at 4:00 a.m. when it’s rather cool, and comfortable. In those days, it usually just started to heat up as you hit the volcano, and then you were covered for hours by thick jungle, all the way up the volcano, and down. It wasn’t until you raced into the 50K aid station, the halfway point, that the searing heat started to smack you down.

This time, however, since we came off the volcano so early, Josue constructed a loooong, 20-mile stretch, around the uninhabited side of the Island, along some of the most rocky and treacherous terrain you have ever seen. Vehicles rarely go back there, and aside from a crew vehicle helping out a group of Costa Ricans, I don’t think I saw any vehicles at all.

It was RUGGED.

This section was completely exposed in the grueling tropical sun with very little shade anywhere, and this is where most runners took a very special beating.

As I approached the aid station at approximately 42K (about a marathon’s distance into the race), I ran up on Zoli, a runner from Israel, who was laying on the road, shot-out, dejected, and afraid the aid station was never coming.

Comically, it was about 400 meters away from him.

Tough stretch, that pretty much sucked the life out of everyone, and created handfuls of grumpy zombies.

Halfway Done

I made the poor decision of wearing trail racing flats for the first 32 miles of the race. For the volcano climb, they were perfect; but, I had no frame of reference for the 20 miles of gnarly rocks to follow, and my flats literally melted. My bottom forefeet were so badly bruised and blistered that every single step became agonizingly painful.

Damn that Josue! (I say that an awful lot, lately)

My buddy Eddie Yanick, a young 23-ish kid I know from the obstacle racing world, caught up to me a little over a mile or so from the 50K checkpoint. I was in daze and wobbling along, thinking I had until 5:00 p.m. to get there.

I didn’t.

I had ’til 3:00 p.m. to get there. Less than 15 minutes, and I was wrecked.

After alerting me to such, Eddie breaks into a decent pace, and I just couldn’t hang on, but knew that if I was to make the cut-off, I had to run briskly. I was sure I was going to call it a day at 50K, but I wanted it to be MY decision, not a race decision.

I came through just a few minutes before the cut-off, where Josue was hanging around, and we chatted as I came through checkpoint.

“You going back out?” he asked.

“Nope, I’m done.” I said, before following that up with the usual ultrarunner excuses, “dude, my feet …that course …those rocks, dude…”

You know, you try to find some way to rationalize why you simply aren’t good enough, cuz who wants to admit that they just aren’t good enough?

And there I sat, content with 50K, …but not really.

Damn You, Eddie

Bastard! There goes Eddie.

My buddy Eddie was being escorted out by Zac, co-race director, and I got this lame feeling in the pit of my stomach.

It was just a week ago that I had gotten on my high-horse, going all Mr. ultra-experienced man, telling Eddie how he should manage his racing and how he should consider my way of thinking over his way of thinking. I was convinced I was “looking out for this young man,” yet there he goes, headed back out into the race, …and here I sit.

Funny how God, Karma, Buddha, circumstance, …whatever, can serve us valuable lessons, and flip the switch on us quickly and dramatically.

“Screw it, I’m going back out” I proclaimed, secretly wondering what in the Hell I was doing, but I was not going to let Eddie go out while I sat on my ass in that chair and watched him run down the beach, headed to Volcan Concepcion, and the most exciting, challenging portion of the entire event.

What Was I Thinking?

The sun was slowly going down.

After almost a mile on the sand, I came off the beach, and looked back to the hoopla from which I just came. I could barely make out all the celebrations and lights at the 50K finish, and as the adrenaline of soldiering on faded away, the pain in my feet rapidly progressed.

As I meandered through a banana plantation, heading to the gnarliest section of the race, the live volcano, Volcan Concepcion, I wondered aloud, “Oh man, what did I do?”

I was both excited, and fearful. This was a new route we were taking. It’s very long, 1600 meters (5400 feet) up, and very, very steep, without switchbacks of any kind.

I was alone.

But, thankfully, not for long.

Compadres on Volcan Concepcion

Standing at the base, looking up to the top of the volcano, looked like hundreds of miles away. The live crater rose to the heavens, hidden by a growing layer of clouds building around the top.

Little did we know that a system was developing up there that was about to wreck some climbers.

The start of the climb begins with a gradual approach, before making a dramatic change to large rocks, and a steep ascent. I just put my head down, found a couple of sticks, and ever-so-slowly started climbing the volcanic beast.

It wasn’t long before I heard people behind me, “What? That doesn’t make sense…” I wondered. “I thought I was the last to leave the camp at 50K.”

I was.

Turns out, Eddie, and another runner from El Salvador, Gerardo, had taken a wrong turn, and I passed them early in the climb.

“Man, am I glad to see you!” I admitted to Eddie.

Little did I know just how important it was for us three to be together on that climb.

Ascension into Descension

We climbed for almost two hours before finally coming to a group of guides who were serving as checkpoint volunteers.

“Are we here?” I asked most hopefully.

“Not even close, about 800 meters to go” said the volunteer.

I quickly did the math in my head, “dude, we are only halfway…”

It was dark now, and I just wanted to stay there, eat a burrito, and sleep.

As we left, the volunteer instructed us, “Don’t go all the way to crater, just go to the glow sticks. It’s not safe at the crater.”

Ok, “glow sticks,” check. Got it.

We climbed on.

This was literally “rock climbing.” Hand over hand, in a sort of crab crawl, as we took turns leading our three-man group. We ascended up the volcano, into the clouds, and started seeing a few runners who were ahead of us, coming down.

Interestingly, and shockingly, each new runner that came down looked worse than the runner before him.

One was climbing down backwards because his quads were so shot, he could no longer go forwards.

As runners passed us coming back down, we were given the following paraphrased quotes:

“Be very careful up there, it’s very dangerous”

“You can’t see anything up there. Watch yourselves”

“This is no longer fun, y’know?”

“Careful, I almost fell in the crater”

“It’s Hell up there.”

And most of this came in the form of another language, usually Spanish, but Gerado was able to kinda-sorta translate for us. Thank God for Gerardo.

We couldn’t understand why everyone looked so trashed. I mean the wind was blowing, and it was wet up in the clouds, but nothing too dramatic, …what gives?

We kept crawling.

Then, rapidly, about 100 meters from the top, conditions went absolutely crazy. The wind was blowing increasingly hard, flapping our clothes, erasing our voices, and forcing us to stay as low as possible.

It felt like a movie. You know when you see a storm on a ship in a movie and actors are yelling at each other and nobody can hear and everyone is in a panic? This was us. But we kept our head down determined to reach the top.

Then we popped out of the tree line, and all Hell broke loose.

“GET DOWN!” yelled Gerado as he led us up.

Great suggestion, but dude, me and Eddie are already down, bro.

We were worm-crawling on our bellies, and freaking out, because we couldn’t see anything. The clouds were so thick that our headlamps were reflecting off all of the moisture in the air, creating a sort of white-out. I could barely see my hand in front of my face.

Then, the scree rock we were slithering on began to get warm. Unusually warm.

And before I could get that sentence out of my month, Gerardo screams loudly, “GUYS! STOP! We are here!”

My hand was literally on the lip of crater. Not just close to it. Not even five feet from it. Nope, right smack-dab on it. Another two feet, and this story could be entirely different.

We sat up, huddled together in the dramatic, crazy wind and blowing rain, smelling the strong fumes of sulfur pouring out of the crater next to us, and congratulating ourselves for persevering and making it to the top.

That lasted maybe 30 seconds.

Now What?

“Wait a minute, I don’t see any glow sticks!?” I screamed.

“Me neither…” yelled Gerardo back.

Eddie is strangely quiet for awhile, but he’s shivering badly. I’m not sure what’s going on with him. Is he having a Zen moment? Is he in shock? He looks really freakin cold.

We all begin scurrying around the lip of the crater trying to find something race-related to prove we were there.

Nothing.

My hat blows off, seemingly into the crater, but because I can’t see a damn thing but white and lava rock below me, I’m not sure where it goes, but its gone.

Eddie begins to come unglued a bit.

“We gotta get down! We gotta get down!”

I can see he’s cold, and I can see he’s scared. I can hear he’s scared. I am, too, but I’m kind of in a state of shock with the dramatic scene unfolding in front of me. It’s both really freaking cool, and really freaking scary, all at the same time. Sensory overload.

That’s when we all realized we made a big mistake.

In our scurrying around, and due to the fact that we can’t see more than five feet in front of us, we lost where the trail opens back up into the tree line below us.

It’s very dangerous to crawl around sideways on Concepcion, and especially that high and close to the crater, because there can be cave-ins that do just that.

I started to drop down and move to our left, looking for the trailhead; Gerado, to the right.

Eddie was with me, and we moved erratically in a panic, looking around, squinting between that fine line between white-out and the brown lava rocks, just trying to find a way to get out of the conditions for a minute and collect ourselves. Gerado, moving to the right, and being in much more control, finally found the opening in the brush, whistled loudly at us, and we followed him down, back into the jungle.

Other than thanking Gerardo profusely for his calm reactions, the three of us remained mostly silent for the first hour of descent back down.

Grateful for life as it was at that moment.

Coming Back Down

“How are we ever going to explain this experience, Eddie” I asked as we descended.

“I have no idea.” was pretty much his response. “I don’t know that we can.”

We now understood why each runner we saw coming down looked worse than the guy before him. We now understood why they were climbing down so slowly, as the descent, now wet and muddy for us climbing at night, was as nasty and slow as the climb up.

The name of the game was two steps and fall. Over and over and over.

It was like an MMA fight. The rocks just kept kicking and punching us the entire way down.

Volcan Concepcion is no joke, especially in the conditions in which we got to taste her. It felt like she did not want us there, and she was certainly succeeding at running us off.

Just Not Good Enough

And like that, we were faced with the race reality no one enjoys – we just weren’t good enough.

We were too slow climbing Concepcion. We wasted too much time on the climb, too much time at the top, and too much time during the descent.

At 1:00 a.m., 20 hours into the race and with only 4 hours to go the remaining 18 miles, our race was over.

Too Hard?

A lot of buzz developed about the race. Some people limping away angry.

Did Josue make it too hard?

With only 15 finishers in a field of 65, is that something a race director wants?

I’m willing to bet that yes, that’s exactly what Josue wants, and I accept it.

There was talk regarding, “should we change the course?” And man, after a lot of introspection, I really hope he does NOT change the course. The bar has been raised, set to a new level, and for those of us that want it this gnarly, want life-changing experiences, they are here, on this Island for the taking.

I have finished this 100K three times before, but this course beat me.

I don’t want a lesser opponent, I want to be a stronger fighter.

Either way, I’ll be back for the magic that is Fuego Y Agua 100K next year, and whatever the course, even if harder than THIS year, I will strap on the gear, buck up, and set out to do whatever Josue thinks we will not be able to do.

Somebody’s gotta beat this dude at his own game.

Why not me?

p.s. This is what the crater would have looked like if we could have actually seen it. Kinda glad I didn’t.

]]>http://run100miles.com/did-that-really-happen/feed/19Morons in the Misthttp://run100miles.com/mountain-mist-2014/
http://run100miles.com/mountain-mist-2014/#respondMon, 27 Jan 2014 00:17:42 +0000http://run100miles.com/?p=3419It’s been a long time My, oh, my, its been awhile since I sat down and penned a straight-up, ultramarathon race report. Slowly but surely, I’ve been fighting my way back into the running world, and after 19 months of fighting, the rewards of hard work are finally paying off. But, that’s not what this […]

It’s been a long time

My, oh, my, its been awhile since I sat down and penned a straight-up, ultramarathon race report. Slowly but surely, I’ve been fighting my way back into the running world, and after 19 months of fighting, the rewards of hard work are finally paying off.

But, that’s not what this report is about.

This report is about a special vibe that surrounds the Mountain Mist 50K Trail Run. It’s about the build-up, packet pick-up, race day, race course, the volunteers, the athletes …and even the drive home.

But, by far, its the ride up, in the Blue Beast Man Van that makes the build-up period so very special. To be a fly on the wall in this vehicle could be its own reality show. We are quintessential “boys” …we have no apologies. It’s a good damn time.

Packet pick-up

We always seem to arrive in Huntsville late, and it’s usually the redneck Weezle’s fault.

But we eventually get there, pick up our race numbers, and then start buying a bunch of last year’s gear. We are Mountain Mist garment whores. We love it. We love everything about the Mist gear, from the logo to the shirt quality; and it’s always being sold at rock-bottom prices that even tight-wad Joe Fejes will pay.

While scoring great gear, cheap, is cool, the best part about packet pickup, for me, is seeing all the Alabama runners that I chat more on Facebook with than actually get to see and chill and run with in real life. It always feels like a homecoming. You know who to expect to be there, and who not. And the ones you expect, are ALWAYS there.

Race day on top of Monte Sano

By 7:00 a.m., the lodge is abuzz with hundreds of nervous runners making last preparations, trying to stay warm, shaking hands, hugging, and sharing “Good luck”(s) and wishes of an exciting day out on the rocky, mountain trails.

Outside, the national anthem is happening, but no one hears it but the peeps up front, and everyone chatters away – not out of disrespect, just completely oblivious to the whispers up front.

Mark, set, go…

The Mountain Mist 50K race course

The course changed a little this year. For the better? yes, and no.

The race started out with about a mile of road, a mile of gravel road, and a mile of single-track. The goal was to spread out the runners, but it didn’t really work, and all that road just wasn’t all that cool.

I’d vote for taking us straight to the trail next time, like usual, and let people who get annoyed by the back-up, sprint faster at the gun.

But the addition of the Arrowhead trail, in lieu of the washout section, was waaaaaay cool. Instead of slopping around, running from side-to-side on a washed-out, old jeep road double-track, we ran a fun section of winding single-track that was really, really nice. Way better than the washout.

The Mountain Mist course is notorious for being really muddy and rocky, but this year, because of the temps, all of the mud was frozen solid, allowing runners to just breeze across the terrain like a soft road.

I ran really smart this year, and for the first time in my entire ultrarunning career, I had a negative split on the course.

I guess even the dumb ones can learn if we stick to it long enough.

It’s the varying terrain that makes it so special

I think what I love most about Mist is that I never get bored. Here’s a quick and dirty breakdown of the course from start to finish:

Run on flat road until you get to the trail

Run a tricky ridge

Climb out of a valley, to the top of the Mountain

Descend sharply into an open powerline section (I nicknamed this the ‘wheat fields’)

Climb the first beast, K2

Run a winding single-track with gradual ups-n-downs

Cross a road, and run a rock garden

Descend a ridiculous, and I mean ridiculous, rocky washout

Cruise some easy, yet muddy, single-track

Stumble through a few miles of gnarly rocks on your way to ‘waterline’

And lastly, the drive home

I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you anything about the ride home.

It’s between me, Joe, Weezy and the walls of the man van, but let’s just say, we screamed a lot. We yelled. We laughed …laughed so hard we cried; and we talked more smack to one another than should be allowed in an entire lifetime, let alone a four-hour drive back to Atlanta.

That’s how we roll. The riff-raff.

The best

So there ya go.

A race experience that should serve as the benchmark for all race experiences. Great people, great trail, great organization, great swag, and just a flat-out great race.

]]>http://run100miles.com/mountain-mist-2014/feed/0Interview with Athlete On Firehttp://run100miles.com/interview-with-athlete-on-fire/
http://run100miles.com/interview-with-athlete-on-fire/#respondWed, 22 Jan 2014 19:14:02 +0000http://run100miles.com/?p=3410Scott Jones, host of Athlete on Fire contacted me early in 2014, asking for an interview around my experiences as an ultrarunner, obstacle racer, and survivor of significant physical trauma. Of course, I jumped at the opportunity. Listen to the podcast and let me know your thoughts: Christian Griffith interview on Athlete on Fire

]]>http://run100miles.com/interview-with-athlete-on-fire/feed/0A Moment of Weaknesshttp://run100miles.com/a-moment-of-weakness/
http://run100miles.com/a-moment-of-weakness/#commentsMon, 20 Jan 2014 15:56:18 +0000http://run100miles.com/?p=3382Saturday, I ran the best race I’ve run in 20 months. Rolled in #31 of 462 runners in the 13.1 mile half marathon at the Robins Air Force Base in Warner Robins, Georgia. I ran an average total race pace of 7:13 minute miles, and through 8 miles, had managed to negative split each one. […]

Rolled in #31 of 462 runners in the 13.1 mile half marathon at the Robins Air Force Base in Warner Robins, Georgia. I ran an average total race pace of 7:13 minute miles, and through 8 miles, had managed to negative split each one.

I took a calf around mile 9, and had to modify my gait, but I’m still very, very proud.

I’m proud of the consistent training. I’m proud of overcoming the odds of recovery. I’m proud that I never gave up on my athletic comeback. I’m proud that for once, I utilized smart race planning and execution, and didn’t blow up on the course.

But there’s a dark cloud hanging over me

I know I shouldn’t let it bother me.

I know there will be some people that will read this and think I’ll never, ever be satisfied. And maybe that’s true in a lot of ways.

But here’s the story, anyway…

“Here dude, I won’t fight, go ahead and beat me.”

That’s what I should have said as I rolled up on the dude in the red singlet, working every bit as hard I was, both of us eyeing that last 1/4 mile to the finish with uber-eager anticipation. I had been chasing him for about a mile, and now, here we were, side by side, panting like hound dogs chasing deer.

He looks over at me…

“Good job, man,” he manages to squeeze out of his blue lips.

“Thanks, brutha,” I politely kicked back, but not wanting to talk at all, “you, too.”

{{{{ long pause }}}}

“What race are you running, half or full?” he asks, which I know is because he sees we are most likely close to the same age, and both kinda, sorta, in the front-ish pack, and thus, most likely about to fight it out in our age group.

I’ve been running long enough to know the signs.

“The half,” I grunted.

“Me, too.”

And as we turned the corner, he eased up ahead of me, pushing the pace pretty strong.

I knew he was making his move, the surge to beat me, specifically.

And I %^&%$! let him.

We crossed the finish line with him beating me by 5 seconds, 1:35:19 to 1:35:24

Later, I found out that I missed the AG podium by letting this dude go.

But that’s not what frustrates me the most.

Dammit, I want to be for real

What frustrates me the most, is the fact that I try so hard to motivate people, to get people fired up about doing, being and striving for the very best they can be, and when the opportunity was there for me to do the very same thing, I waffled. I failed. I displayed athletic weakness.

To let it happen, I played the rationalization game.

“I’m chasing the clock, not other competitors,” I tried to convince myself.

“I’m already waaaay ahead of my goal.”

“He’s probably younger than me, anyway..” on and on. Anything I could think of to feel ok with watching his backside pull further and further ahead.

But lesson learned

So congratulations, Robert Byrd, you got me, man. You were the better runner that day.

But keep looking over your shoulder because we are in the same age group for another year, and I’m determined to get fast. I’m determined to make the Atlanta Track Club competitive team, and nothing is going to stop me.

]]>http://run100miles.com/a-moment-of-weakness/feed/12Survival Run Race Reporthttp://run100miles.com/survival-run-race-report/
http://run100miles.com/survival-run-race-report/#commentsWed, 30 Oct 2013 11:23:57 +0000http://run100miles.com/?p=3362Sitting in a rooftop Jacuzzi, at the plush Mokara Hotel and Spa in downtown San Antonio, with Survival Race winner Shane McKay, felt strangely foreign to me. Twenty-four hours previous, I was navigating my way through ridiculously rocky terrain, in the dark, with bloody feet, body lacerations, and an overwhelming feeling of fatigue. I was 17 […]

Sitting in a rooftop Jacuzzi, at the plush Mokara Hotel and Spa in downtown San Antonio, with Survival Race winner Shane McKay, felt strangely foreign to me.

Twenty-four hours previous, I was navigating my way through ridiculously rocky terrain, in the dark, with bloody feet, body lacerations, and an overwhelming feeling of fatigue. I was 17 hours and 30 miles into the race, and my footwear had become pretty much nonexistent. When I could run, I looked more like an extra for the Walking Dead, stumbling after warm blood, than I did an endurance athlete.

During these low points, I used to ask myself why I do these things. Am I just trying to look tough, or perhaps trying to convince myself that I am tough? What draws me to self-induced suffering?

Cutting-edge race director Josue Stephens, known for pushing the limits of traditional footraces, has launched a new series of ultramatathons and ultra-distance obstacle races designed to challenge strength and endurance athletes like never before.

Austin, TX­­ — This October the 5th, a new kind of obstacle course race will be coming to Texas. Taking place in the treacherous and unforgiving terrain of west Texas, the Survival Run: Hunter Gatherer will integrate primitive survival skills into the 50k and 100k distance races. Competitors will have to prove proficient in bow drill fire making, creating and shooting a bow and arrow, finding and filtering water, and even fashioning their own sandals which they will have to run the race in.

From gnarly races in remote areas of Nicaragua and Mexico, to new, unheard of challenges right here in the states, count on Josue’s newest creation, the Hunter Gatherer race series, to be tough, exciting, fulfilling and dramatic.